


Of Birthdays and Banter

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Denmark Street musings [39]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Banter, Birthday, F/M, First Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:27:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27680702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Happy birthday, Cormoran Strike!For all those, especially libraryv, who like a bit of swagger with their Strike ❤️
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: Denmark Street musings [39]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1035698
Comments: 232
Kudos: 165





	1. Sunday, November 23rd 2014 - early morning

**Happy 40th!! x**

Robin sent the text and set her phone aside on her bedside table. An unexpected yawn took her over; she was bone-deep tired but also zinging awake despite not having had any coffee since about three o’clock in the morning.

She went through a rudimentary bedtime routine, knowing she'd sleep longer if she was comfortable and had brushed her teeth. She checked that her newly purchased blackout blinds were snug in the window, shutting out the growing dawn light, and imagined Michelle, across town, doing the same. Barclay had arrived prompt at five to relieve them, looking like he hadn't slept himself - "the wean's teethin'" - and the two female detectives had relinquished the surveillance willingly and made their separate ways home to bed. It never ceased to surprise Robin that people were still spilling out of the clubs as she drove home, sandy-eyed and yawning. It seemed it was still Saturday night for the youngsters.

She crawled into bed and shuffled down under the duvet, and reached for her phone again. She was surprised but pleased to see an answering text from Strike. It wasn’t like him to be up this early on a weekend away, but she supposed a night with his uncle Ted and mate Dave Polworth at the Victory Inn for his birthday was hardly likely to have been a lengthy, drunken affair.

It had been Strike’s own idea to spend the weekend of his fortieth birthday in Cornwall, and Robin strongly suspected he’d only arranged it to prevent Ilsa from throwing him a party. They’d enjoyed Nick’s the previous month, but Strike had firmly shut down all suggestions of a repeat performance for his birthday despite having liked seeing old school mates from years ago. Nick had been better at keeping in touch with people than Strike had.

 **Thanks,** his reply read. **And thank you for the tickets. How on earth did you get them?**

Robin smiled as she tapped her reply. **You’re welcome. I had a little help from Nick. Apparently one of your old school mates supports them too?**

Robin had managed to secure Champions League tickets for Arsenal’s home match against Borussia Dortmund that coming Wednesday, the closest date to his birthday she could find a home game. With their current cases involving large amounts of overnight surveillance, it had been tricky ensuring he had that night off too and not looking too suspicious about it, given that he’d just had the weekend off for his birthday and they were supposed to be going to the Herberts’ for dinner on Monday evening; she and Pat had been in cahoots over the complexities, making a rota that was fair to everyone and just happened to give their boss the nights off that he needed.

 **Well, they will be much appreciated. Want to come with me?** This last was annotated with a winking emoji, and Robin giggled. Strike knew full well she would be able to think of many, many things she’d rather do on a cold Wednesday evening at the end of November than squeeze into a football stadium with tens of thousands of roaring fans.

It would be a whole evening with her big partner, though. For just a moment she seriously contemplated it, then she shook her head at herself and sent back the text he was expecting.

**I’ll pass, thanks. This is why you have guy friends. Take Nick.**

She snuggled her head into the pillow, but she didn’t put her phone down, and sure enough an answering text soon popped up.

**Shame. Nothing like a baying mob on a weekday night.**

A pause, then another text. **Why are you still awake?**

Robin grinned. **I’m trying to sleep, but someone keeps texting me.**

Another pause.

**Rude. Tell them to sod off.**

Robin chuckled. **Sod off, Strike. Happy birthday x**

**Thanks. Night x**

Robin set her phone down again and turned over to go to sleep, a smile on her face.


	2. Sunday, November 23rd - evening

Robin was still yawning as she unlocked the Denmark Street office that evening and hurried across to the filing cabinet. It took so many days to rewrite one’s body clock to the nocturnal, and then afterwards to force it back again. She’d slept deeply for three hours, then fitfully for another two, before finally giving in and getting up. She could hear Max trying to be quiet, shushing Wolfgang as they crept down the stairs to go for walks, and she felt guilty. She’d spent the afternoon ironing in front of mindless Sunday television, and was off to relieve Hutchins on the surveillance. She was teamed up tonight with Barclay, who had requested a split shift so that he might have the afternoon with his family. Robin would never stop feeling grateful for Pat’s calm, unflappable ability with a rota. She took requests with a raised eyebrow that left the requester in no doubt as to how much they were messing with the existing plan, but then quietly weaved her magic and made it work.

She flicked through the filing cabinet for the McCaffery file - might as well make use of the long, boring hours updating the notes on one of her other cases - and then took it through to the inner office to fetch her notebook from her desk. She grinned at Strike’s balloon, bobbing away above his desk, stirred by the movement of air from her bustling presence and opening and closing of doors. With him away all weekend, she’d been compelled to give it to him on Friday before he caught the late afternoon train to Cornwall; he’d roared with laughter when he opened the box and Arsenal’s crest floated up before him, causing Pat to peer into the inner office and gaze at them both, puzzled as to why a balloon could have caused such mirth. Few people had seen Robin’s donkey balloon that she had kept long after she should have given up on its limp attempts to stay upright.

She’d tried hard to track down something less generic than simply Arsenal, but hadn’t been able to find anything niche enough; in the end, it didn’t matter. It was the joke itself that was important, along with Robin’s shrug and smile and comment that she’d heard balloons were the thing to give for significant birthdays. Strike had grinned and thanked her, and periodically chuckled at it all afternoon until he’d had to leave.

She picked up her notebook and turned back just as the outer door opened to reveal Strike himself. For a moment Robin wondered if he had heard her and come down from his flat, but then she noticed his big coat, the rucksack slung on his shoulder.

She smiled up at him, her heart happy to see him. She’d reflected on her way here to fetch the file that she’d decided it would be a good idea to update what a shame it was that she wouldn’t see him on his actual birthday; it was fortuitous that she was here just as he was arriving back from his weekend away. His answering grin lifted her heart further.

“Good weekend?” she asked him.

He smiled back at her, nodding. “Great, thanks. Windy, blew the cobwebs away.”

He did indeed, despite hours on train and then Tube, look somehow windswept still. His hair was more riotous than normal, and his normally pale cheeks a healthy pink. Several days’ worth of stubble gave away the fact that he hadn’t bothered taking a razor to Cornwall. Beneath his heavy coat, which he was now stripping off, he wore a cream fisherman-style jumper she’d never seen, obviously newly gifted and already slightly rumpled, setting off his dark hair and healthy colour.

“God, London’s hot when you’ve been in the countryside,” Strike added, dumping his rucksack on the floor and moving to sling his coat over the peg by the door.

Robin nodded agreement. “Same when I’ve been to Yorkshire,” she said. “I can’t believe it can be so much warmer here. It’s not that far, really.”

He turned back, grinning still, as though pleased to find her here unexpectedly. “How come you’re working? Thought you were on surveillance tonight. Got time for a a quick pint?”

His hopeful look became crestfallen as Robin shook her head regretfully. “I can’t, sorry. I am on surveillance, Sam’s picking me up any moment. I asked him to meet me here so I could grab some work to do while we’re endlessly waiting for nothing to happen. But I’ll see you tomorrow night at Nick and Ilsa’s?”

He nodded, still smiling. “The dinner I couldn’t escape.”

Robin chuckled. “You weren’t going to get away with Ilsa doing nothing for your fortieth.”

“I know. And curry night I will at least enjoy.”

“I’ll drive you if you like,” Robin went on. “I’m on surveillance again from ten so I can even drop you home again if you don’t want a late night.”

His smile was soft. “A lift there would be great, thanks. But Nick and I will probably hit the whisky, so I’ll stay over or get a taxi. It’ll be nice to have you there, though.”

Her heart fluttering, Robin could feel a blush stealing up her neck. “I wouldn’t miss it,” she replied briskly. “Right, I’d better go, don’t want to keep Barclay waiting.” She hesitated, glancing up at him shyly, then stepped forward. “Happy birthday,” she added, and kissed him on the cheek.

Strike’s arm slid around her automatically as she stepped up to him; in response she found herself drawing him into a hug when she’d only meant to deliver a swift peck to his cheek; somehow now she was trapped hugging him with her lips pressed to his stubble, and hurriedly pulled her face away so as not to linger inappropriately. Still hugging him, this left her in his arms with her face inches from his, which hadn’t been her intention at all, but his embrace felt, as always, so safe and warm, and his new jumper so soft, and he smelled of cologne and heat and sea salt and suddenly Robin had let the moment hang a beat too long, and then another, stood in the office with their arms around each other and their noses almost touching.

Strike moved just a little, bending towards her, his eyes on hers, and Robin’s heart lurched; knowing what was coming and longing for it even though she had told herself again and again in the six weeks since her birthday what a bad plan it was, she met him halfway as his lips found hers.

Silence reigned in the little office as they kissed, as pressure was met and tongues explored, as her hands somehow slid into his hair and he drew her closer against him; time stood still, and then was rudely and abruptly restarted by the door buzzer.

Robin jumped and pulled away with a gasp; Strike stepped back looking as bemused and blindsided as she felt, breathing hard.

“Barclay,” Robin managed, turning hurriedly to grab for the entry phone. She snatched it up. “That you, Sam?”

“Aye,” came the broad Scottish burr in a distant crackle. “I’m here. Nae hurry, I got a parking spot. I’m on a double yellow, though.”

“I’ll be right down,” Robin replied, and replaced the phone.

She turned back to her partner, her heart hammering. Strike was gazing at her, his eyes soft.

Silence hung, getting thicker and more awkward by the second.

“Um, sorry?” Strike hazarded, yet he smiled, looking anything but. Tension broken, Robin giggled.

“Are you? Sorry?”

He shrugged. “Not really.”

Robin risked a tiny step forward. “Me neither.”

The grin he gave her took her breath away, made her laugh, and suddenly they were hugging and then they were kissing again, messy and awkward, but causing heat to rise sharply in the office until Robin was pink-cheeked and panting.

She pulled back reluctantly. “I have to go.”

His hands had found hers, pulling her close again. “I wish you didn’t.”

“I know, me too.” She kissed him again, brief and fierce, pulling back as his mouth chased hers. “Strike, I really have to go.”

“Come back afterwards,” he urged.

Robin gave a shocked laugh. “It’ll be four o’clock in the morning.”

“Don’t care.”

She smiled. “You will when I’m knocking on your door at 4am. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. You’ve got a morning tailing Redhead, remember?”

Strike sighed. “I know. Coffee sometime tomorrow, then?”

Robin nodded, doing up her coat, picking up her file and notebook. “We’ll fit something in.” She turned to the door.

“Robin...” He caught her hand again. She turned back, her gaze questioning.

“I—” Strike hesitated, looking almost afraid. “That wasn’t just a kiss. It was—” he shrugged helplessly “—a beginning. I hope?”

Robin grinned, and he grinned back at her. “Good,” she replied. “Because I’m not that sort of girl. If you’re going to invite me round at four o’clock in the morning, you’d better be offering more than just—” She couldn’t say it; she trailed off, scarlet.

Strike leaned and kissed her swiftly, chastely, on the lips. “I am. Now go. I’ll text you.”

Heart still fluttering, Robin nodded and left the office, her steps light as she hurried down the stairs.


	3. Monday November 24th - very early

Robin sat in the passenger seat next to Barclay, trying to write notes from her notebook into the file by the light of her phone while the Scot, exhausted from over twenty-four hours of little sleep, snored softly in the seat next to her, his head resting on the side of the car.

She’d spent the first hour after Barclay finally fell asleep and she no longer had to force herself not to think about what had happened in the office earlier reliving every detail of kissing Cormoran Strike, marvelling at how it had come about, her heart fluttering like a teenager’s and her thoughts tangled up. Was it a good idea? She’d told herself for so long that she couldn’t get romantically involved with her business partner, that she’d worked so hard to get to where she was and she didn’t want to mess things up. But then she would remember the way he looked at her, so soft and fond, the heat in his kiss, the feel of his arms around her, and she would give herself a mental shake and try to refocus on her work.

She wasn’t having much success, partly because the light was poor and she didn’t want to use the car’s internal lights and draw attention to their surveillance, but mostly because her phone kept flashing with incoming messages.

**I miss you.**

Robin smiled to herself and shook her head softly, and texted Strike back.

**You saw me four hours ago.**

Her screen flashed. **Ages. And not enough. I wanted to see more of you.**

Robin raised one eyebrow.

 _Flash_. **That’s not what I meant. I wanted to see you for longer, not that I wanted to see more of...you.**

Robin shook her head, a smile pulling at her mouth, and wrote another sentence in her file.

 _Flash_. **Although...**

Heat coiled deep within her as she remembered the stroke of his tongue against hers, the bulk of him pressed against her, the taste of him. Robin gave up trying to write.

**Go to sleep.**

_Flash_. **Can’t**.

**Why not?**

_Flash_. **Can’t stop thinking about you. What are you doing?**

**Listening to Sam snore and trying to work and watch the house at the same time. Stop distracting me.**

_Flash_. **What are you wearing?**

Robin rolled her eyes. **Trainers, jeans, a top, two jumpers and my big coat.**

 _Flash_. **Sounds sexy. Wish I was there with you instead of Sam.**

**Then you’d be snoring too.**

_Flash_. **Not after that kiss.**

Robin smiled. **It was some kiss.**

 _Flash_. **It was. And I meant what I said. I want this. Us.**

**Me too.**

Next to Robin, Barclay snorted and stirred; suddenly afraid that Strike was going to start telling her exactly what he would be doing if he were here, and that she would have to read it in front of an awake and very astute colleague, Robin hurriedly tapped out another text.

**Sam’s waking up. It’s my turn to nap. Go to sleep! I’ll see you tomorrow x**

_Flash_. **Night, Ellacott x**

Grinning, Robin slid her phone into her coat pocket.

Barclay yawned. “Big man safe home, is he?”

Robin forced an air of nonchalance. “Why would you think that was Strike?”

The Scot snorted. “You only smile like tha’ when he texts ye. Any action?”

Robin coughed, knowing her cheeks were flaming and glad of the dark. “Um, what?”

Barclay eyed her curiously. “From th’ house.” He waved at the property they were watching. “Anything goin’ on?”

“Oh. Er, no.” Robin busied herself tidying up her file, closing her notebook.

“Right. Well, you get a wee nap, then, I’m good fer a few hours now.”

“Okay, thanks.” Glad of the chance to turn her flaming face away, Robin pulled her collar up to her ears and rested her head against the side window. It was a long time before her fluttering heart calmed enough for her to slip into a doze.


	4. Monday November 24th - mid afternoon

“Something’s going on,” Pat said as soon as Robin arrived in the office, a little groggy from daytime sleeping again. She had a couple of hours’ work to do before heading to Nick and Ilsa’s for curry night. Pat was situated in her usual spot at her desk, e-cigarette between her lips, but had paused her typing and removed the device when Robin arrived.

Robin blinked at her. “What do you mean?”

Pat jerked her head in the direction of the door to the inner office. “With the boss.”

Robin stared at her.

“Like what?” she asked eventually.

Pat waved at her desk. “He went out for coffees this afternoon and he actually got what I asked for, he always gets it wrong. He was whistling. And he bought me...that.” She indicated, with deep suspicion, a white chocolate snowman sat innocently by her coffee cup.

“Right,” Robin said cautiously.

“And,” Pat went on, leaning forward for emphasis, “he’s been... _singing_.”

Robin swallowed a giggle. “Singing? Strike?”

Pat snorted, discomfited. “I heard him.”

“What was he singing?”

“Dunno.” Pat shrugged. “Sounded like some kind of marching tune.”

“‘The Song of the Western Men’,” Robin muttered, earning further scrutiny from their secretary.

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve heard him sing it before,” Robin replied, willing her cheeks not to flush.

“Well, he’s far too bloody cheerful. It’s unsettling.” Pat stuck her vaping device back in her mouth and resumed typing as Robin suppressed a giggle.

“He must have had a nice time in Cornwall. I’ll ask him to be less happy,” she promised, smiling, and went through to the inner office.

Her heart pounded. It was the first time she’d faced her burly partner since their unexpected kiss the night before. Would he have changed his mind? He hadn’t texted her again since they’d bid one another goodnight. She’d assumed he wouldn’t know when she’d be asleep and didn’t want to disturb her, but maybe—

The pure delight on his face as she stepped into the room dispelled any doubt. He grinned at her, so obviously happy to see her, it made her blush at once...and then he hurriedly schooled his features to neutral.

“Yes, Pat?”

Robin stepped aside. She’d been so focused on Strike and his reaction, she hadn’t heard Pat follow her.

“While you’re both here,” the secretary said, “could you sign a couple of cheques? Got some invoices to pay.”

Strike held out his hand for the chequebook, and scrawled his spiky signature across the bottom of a few cheques while Robin, trying to get her colour under control, busied herself hanging her coat over the back of her chair and stowing her handbag under her side of the desk. Strike slid the chequebook across to her as she sat down; Robin was unable to meet his eye with Pat standing watching them.

“Thanks,” she muttered, grabbing a pen from the pot on her desk and adding her own signature next to his on each cheque that he’d signed.

Strike grinned at Pat while Robin focused on the task in front of her. “How are you, Pat?”

Pat stared at him. “The same as I was last time you asked.”

Unperturbed, Strike carried on smiling at her as Robin handed her the chequebook back. “Nice scarf,” he added.

“Um, thanks.” With a deeply suspicious look at Strike, and a brief flicker of a glance at Robin that seemed to say ‘I told you so,’ Pat withdrew hastily back to the outer office, leaving the interconnecting door half open.

“What?” Strike looked at Robin, grinning, as she tried to keep her giggles quiet.

“Stop it,” she hissed, grinning back.

“Stop what?” his face was the picture of innocence.

“Being so nice to Pat. You’re making her very suspicious. Just be normal.”

Strike leaned back in his chair, his legs crossed at the ankles under their shared desk, and regarded her with a lazy smile. “I’m in a good mood.”

“I can see that. But stop taking it out on the staff.”

Strike gave a shout of laughter that Robin was sure was followed by a slightly indignant huff from the outer office. Maybe she was imagining things. A smile was pulled across her face by Strike’s mirth, and then abruptly he stopped laughing and flashed her an intense look.

“I want to kiss you again.”

“Cormoran!” Robin hissed, casting an anxious glance at the half-open door. “Keep your voice down.”

“You could come over here and shut me up. I’m sure you’d think of a way.” He was enjoying her fluster, she could tell, his eyes twinkling wickedly at her as she grew redder.

“Not in the office,” Robin muttered.

“Later, then?”

“We’ve got curry night, and then I’m straight back out on surveillance with Sam again.”

Strike pouted, a little boost to her ego that was most welcome. “We could cancel Ilsa and Nick.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’d risk Ilsa’s wrath?”

He grinned wickedly. “It would be worth it.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Robin said primly, her eyes sparkling at him. “But we’ve made plans now, and I’m looking forward to my curry.”

He pouted at her again, jutting his lip, his eyes still twinkling, and Robin rolled her eyes fondly and turned to her computer.

Luckily for her, her big partner was distracted by the arrival of Barclay, come to drop off his invoices for Pat. He sauntered through to the office where the two partners were busy working.

“We meeting at ten, Rob?”

Robin smiled up at him. “Hi, Sam. Yes, we are. Taking over from Michelle at half past.”

“Grand. Will I pick you up?”

“Actually I’ll be in the Land Rover,” Robin replied. “Strike and I have got that dinner at friends’ tonight for his birthday. So I’ll pick you up?”

“I thought you offered me a lift home?” Strike butted in.

Robin cast him an amused glance. “I thought you said you and Nick would be staying up late.”

“Changed my mind,” Strike replied breezily, leaning back in his chair. He was so impossibly handsome in his new beige jumper, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Got a couple of things I want to attend to here.” His eyes held hers, a challenge.

Willing herself not to blush, Robin turned back to their subcontractor. “In that case, I’ll swing by yours after I drop Strike back here.”

The Scot shrugged. “I’ll come here,” he replied. “If you’re tryna drop the big man off an’ then get to mine an’ then to Michelle by half ten, ye’ll be half the night in the car. Ye’d have tae leave yer dinner at nine.”

Robin sighed and nodded. “You’re right. Thank you, Sam, I’ll see you back here.”

“Tea, Barclay?” Strike pulled himself up and made his way round the desk. “I promised Pat I’d make the next round.”

Barclay cast a slightly confused look at Robin. “Aye, all right, then, ta,” he replied, and watched as Strike strolled, humming to himself, through to the outer office. He turned back to Robin, but she was focusing on her screen again, her cheeks picked out in spots of colour.

Bemused, he followed Strike out.


	5. Monday November 24th - evening

The way Ilsa reacted when she (almost instantly) realised that something fundamental had changed in the nature of the relationship between her detective friends, one would have been forgiven for thinking it was her birthday and she’d been given the best present ever, Robin reflected afterwards. She’d insisted on opening the champagne at once, and Robin had allowed herself to be persuaded to a small glass - she had several hours and a huge curry before she needed to drive.

Nick had quirked an eyebrow in amusement to hear how recent the development was, and muttered to Strike when the girls were distracted by the cats that he was surprised their friends had even showed up for dinner.

“It was a close call,” Strike admitted, grinning. “But Robin insisted.”

Nick winked at him. “You’ll be leaving right after the food, I take it?”

Strike pulled a face and sighed. “Yeah - but sadly because Robin’s on surveillance again tonight. I’m going home alone.”

Nick roared with laughter. “Cold shower for one, then?”

Strike snorted. “Something like that.”

Their _sotto voce_ exchange had earned them suspicion from the girls; they’d been forced to behave themselves for the rest of the evening, which had passed all too quickly for Robin’s liking. Finally they were ejected by a tipsy and happily tearful Ilsa, and Strike, slightly drunk himself after champagne, a few beers and a whisky chaser after his curry, shook Nick’s hand and scrambled in his side of the Land Rover. Robin, after one more lingering squeeze from Ilsa, climbed up behind the wheel and they set off back towards Denmark Street.

“How are we doing for time?” Strike asked, openly admiring Robin’s profile as she drove as though he had long wanted to do so.

Robin glanced at her watch as they passed under a street light. “Yeah, fine.”

“Any time to spare? You could...pop upstairs for a few minutes when you drop me off,” Strike said hopefully.

Robin cast him a sideways glance. “Let’s see if Sam’s there already when we get there, and if there’s a parking space,” she replied, and grinned as his lower lip jutted in a slight pout. She wondered when on earth they were finally going to get some time to spend together - possibly not until this case was finished, the amount of overnight work it required. She idly wondered as she drove if she could swap a shift with Michelle and make herself free tomorrow evening.

Their usual quiet companionship settled between them for a few minutes, and then Strike reached out and uncharacteristically laid a hand on her knee.

Robin glanced across at him. He was watching her carefully.

“Do we...need to talk?” he asked tentatively.

“What about?” His hand was big and warm on her leg.

“This. Us.” He made a vague gesture with his hand and then returned it to her leg. “I know it’s only one kiss so far, but—”

She cast him a soft smile. “I know.”

“And we still have to work together.”

Robin pursed her lips. “I think we can manage.”

“If it went wrong—”

Robin chuckled. “Let’s not think about what can go wrong before we even start. Besides, I’ve got more to lose than you. It’s your business.”

“It’s ours.”

Robin laid her hand gently on his for a moment. “But your name is on the door and you live upstairs. You’re not exactly going to be the one leaving.”

“The business was on its knees before you arrived. Your skill, and your empathy, and your disguises—”

“—count for nothing without your expertise and experience.”

There was a slightly strained pause.

“How about we agree that whatever happens with us, we’ll make the business work?” Robin said, smiling.

“It’s not that simple—”

“Then we’ll make it that simple,” Robin retorted, animated suddenly. “We decide. The business first, if we screw up.” She hesitated. “But why would we? This is us.”

Strike sighed and gazed out of the side window as they crossed the Thames. “I don’t have a very good track record.”

Robin shrugged. “Neither do I. Nor does anyone, until they meet the right person.”

His head snapped back around, and Robin felt his piercing gaze on her profile. Her cheeks began to heat up, but she kept her eyes firmly on the road ahead.

There was a long silence, and then Strike turned to face the front too. His hand tightened on her leg briefly.

“You’re amazing, d’you know that?” he said quietly. “You believe anything is possible.”

“It is,” Robin insisted.

“And you make me believe it too.”

Tension broken, Robin grinned. “Good.”

Silence fell again, but this time it was their easy familiarity returned. Strike began to draw his hand away, but Robin dropped hers to her knee to hold him in place.

They drove through the busy evening traffic, making their steady way towards Denmark Street, and Robin was aware of and enjoying Strike’s admiration. All too soon they pulled up beside the familiar narrow door. Robin managed to squeeze into a space almost immediately outside the office, but she was on a double yellow and didn’t dare leave the vehicle despite Strike’s attempts to persuade her.

“Just a few minutes,” he wheedled, and Robin smiled across at him.

“I’ll try and swap tomorrow night off, we could have an evening,” she suggested, and he nodded sadly.

“That’s ages away, though.”

Robin grinned. “We’ve waited this long. A bit longer won’t hurt.”

“You know I’m going to snog you now, though.” His eyes twinkled at her.

Pink-cheeked, Robin glanced up and down the road. No sign of Barclay yet.

“Okay, but—”

She didn’t manage to finish her sentence before Strike kissed her, determined yet gentle. He tasted of whisky and smelled slightly of curry and uniquely of him, spice and musk and a hint of lavender. Robin was swept into his kiss at once, forgetting her surroundings, slightly awkwardly twisted in the car, and a few delicious, quiet minutes passed until she broke away with a little gasp to breathe - and spotted Barclay rounding the corner.

“Sam’s here,” she gasped.

Strike scowled. “We’re going to need to put a bell on him so we can hear him coming,” he muttered darkly, and Robin giggled.

Barclay strolled towards them, and Strike dug in his pockets for his keys. Robin watched as he twisted one from the ring then then reached to press it into her palm.

“What’s this?”

“Key to my flat. Come back, after,” he urged. “Please, Robin. And not to... Well, not only— That’s not why I’m asking,” he finally finished. “Just come and get into bed with me. Nothing has to happen.”

Robin blinked at him, and a smile crept across her face. “Okay,” she replied slowly. “But how are you going to get in?”

“Spare key in my desk,” Strike replied, reaching for the door handle. He paused, and looked back at her, his eyes dark. “I’ll see you later. I’ll leave a T-shirt out for you to wear.”

Robin grinned. “I’ll try not to wake you.”

“Feel free - _very_ free - to wake me,” Strike replied, and with an outrageous wink that made her blush, he climbed out of the car and made his ungainly way towards the office door, pulling his cigarettes from his coat pocket as he went. He greeted Barclay, and then lit up and watched as his two colleagues settled themselves into the old vehicle - Barclay had brought tonight’s snacks and Thermos, knowing Robin would have been out all evening - and set off.

He grinned to himself, dropped his cigarette into the gutter and let himself into the building.


	6. Tuesday November 25th - morning

Barclay arrived at the Denmark Street front door shortly before half past eight and climbed the stairs. The half-glass door to the agency was slightly ajar; he let himself in and heard Strike rumble a greeting from the inner office.

He made his way through. The big man was sat at his desk, leaning back in his chair, cigarette in hand, an extra-strong mug of steaming coffee next to his ashtray. He looked rumpled, hair its usual riot and shirt creased.

“Mornin’” Barclay replied. “Sorry to drag ye up so early, but ye’re going tae want tae see this.” He waved his phone at Strike. “Finally worked out what’s goin’ on in that place!”

“Tea?” Strike grunted, and the Scot nodded, dropping his lanky frame into the seat in front of his boss’s desk. “Aye, ta. I’ll start emailing these pictures across tae ye.”

Strike jammed his cigarette in his mouth and pulled himself upright, and made his way to the outer office to put the kettle on. He moved a little stiffly.

By the time he returned with a cup of hot, sweet tea, Barclay was finishing sending the pictures across.

“Gi’e ’em a wee minute tae come through,” he said. “Ta,” he added gratefully as the mug was plonked in front of him.

Strike sat back down with a grunt. Barclay regarded him and noted that his shirt buttons were done up slightly wrong, refusing to align at the rumpled collar.

“I sent Robin home early,” he said casually. “She looked, em, tired.”

Strike lit another cigarette. “I’m sure that was very much appreciated,” he replied without a trace of irony.

Barclay nodded. “She’s done a few nights now,” he went on. “Looked like she could use a lie-in.”

A brief, vivid image flashed through Strike’s mind of Robin as he’d left her, sprawled naked and deeply asleep across his bed, her golden hair a tousled mess and her lips pursed in a swollen pout from his kisses. He’d come perilously close to telling Barclay to fuck off when his jubilant text had arrived half an hour ago, but they’d been trying to close this case for weeks; it would look deeply suspicious not to be interested in the conclusion.

He cleared his throat gruffly and swung to face his computer, hoping the cloud of smoke from his third cigarette of the morning obscured his face somewhat. “Let’s see what you’ve got, then.”

The ensuing discussion and denouement of the case took until Pat arrived; despite himself, Strike was, as always, wrapped up in the fascination of the minutiae, the devil in the detail, and although he had initially intended to get rid of his subcontractor as fast as possible so that he might go back to bed, they were ready for second cups of tea by the time Pat had boiled the kettle. The case was settled to Strike’s satisfaction; a couple of interviews and a detailed report, and they’d be able to submit a hefty invoice for the time they’d all spent.

Pat smiled at them both as she brought their mugs of tea and the biscuit tin through and both remembered to thank her - never an issue with Sam, but a welcome new courtesy from the boss. She was delighted to hear them discussing the end of the case.

“No more night shifts for a while, then?” she asked.

Strike grinned. “Nope,” he replied. “Lucky for me, I was just about to have to step back into the fray after my birthday weekend off.”

Pat smiled back at him, no longer quite so suspicious of their boss’s ongoing good mood. It was growing on her. “I’ll redo the rota,” she said. “Shall I ring the next client on the list?”

Strike scratched at his beard that he still hadn’t got around to shaving since the weekend. It would have to go now that he would need to line up a couple of case-closing interviews - shame, now he knew for sure that Robin did, in fact, count herself among those women who liked beards. Lucky it grew so fast.

He pulled his thoughts back to the room. “Let me have a look at the list,” he mused. “There was one that Robin was particularly keen on taking, we might let that one jump the queue a bit.”

Pat nodded. “Right you are. I’ll send you the list.”

But Strike was clambering out of his chair again. “I’ll just have a look on your computer, shall I? Save you the bother. Come and cast your eye over it too, Sam.”

The three made their way through to the outer office; Pat called up the list of waiting clients and the notes she’d taken on each one, and slid her chair to one side to deal with the post and let the detectives peruse the available cases.

“Top one’s been waiting a while,” Strike mused. “Better see if they still want us. They might have found someone else.”

“Aye,” Barclay replied. “An’ that puts the one Robin favoured third.”

Strike peered at the monitor. “Fourth. It was that one.” He pointed a large finger at the screen.

Barclay squinted. “Nah, it was that one with the student. I remember her joking she could brush up on her reading spending all her time in the library.”

Strike frowned. “No, it was the third one, the bookshop with the regular shoplifter. That was why she was going to get lots of reading done.”

“Ye sure, big man?”

“Very.”

The two looked at one another.

Pat rolled her eyes and reached for the phone. “Easy to resolve,” she said firmly, and before Strike could react, she punched the button that speed-dialled Robin’s mobile, right under the button that rang his.

“Wait, she might be asleep—” Strike trailed off and silence fell in the little office as, above them, they could faintly but clearly near the sound of Robin’s phone ringing. Indeed, the accompanying buzzing suggested that it was in her bag dumped on the floor in the middle of the room.

Strike cleared his throat and turned back to the monitor; Barclay coughed and stepped away to put his empty mug in the sink. Frozen, Pat held the phone slightly away from her ear and stared at her boss’s red cheek.

Tiptoeing footsteps crossed the floor above them; a pause, and the ringing stopped.

Pat replaced the receiver. “Voicemail,” she managed, her lips in a thin line with a faint hint of a quiver. “I’ll try her again later.”

His back to the room, shoulders shaking, Barclay washed up his mug.

Strike straightened up. “Right,” he said, briskly and almost normally. “I’ll make some phone calls, then. Could you send me those numbers, please, Pat?”

“Will do,” the secretary replied, carefully not looking at him.

“Great,” Strike replied. “Morning, Barclay.”

The Scot turned around. “Night for me,” he replied. “I’ll be off, then.” He cast Strike an amused, knowing look, but was wise enough to refrain from comment.

Strike gave the slightest shrug, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and strolled back into the inner office, whistling. He plonked himself back in his chair at his desk and, grinning, typed out a text.

**I should warn you the staff know, and I didn’t tell them! x**

Chuckling, he lit another cigarette and pulled his mug of tea towards him.


End file.
